


The Countdown to Genesis

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 2012 HP Zombiefest, F/M, Horror, Pre-Zombie Apocalypse, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Theodore Nott is a man with an obsession.Hermione Granger is a woman with a vision.One has a secret that could end them both.





	The Countdown to Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 2012 HP Zombiefest on LJ and was inspired by this prompt from RZZMG: _They'd met at The Leaky Cauldron in secret for years. Now that the zombie plague is out of control, they will meet here one last time._
> 
> Some warnings include main character death, gore, violence, some strong profanity, and implicit sexual situations.  
> This is DH complaint with EWE?.  
> Finally, a huge 'thanks' to my betas, Joanna and Evan, for all their help!

**The Countdown to Genesis**

**T minus 1 year, 338 days**

Theodore Nott hunched over his cauldron and counted the seconds. The Draught of Living Death was an extremely difficult potion to brew in controlled circumstances. A home-brew, like Theo was attempting, was far riskier. He had learned that the hard way, and had a pile of ruined cauldrons, a scorched and stained table, and smoke stains darkening the study's high ceiling as proof.

Several cycles of trial and error had Theo feeling uncharacteristically confident this time. He'd done the calculations and memorized the theory. The wormwood was as finely shredded as he could make it, and he had bought a set of analytical scales to ensure that its measurement was accurate to the thousandths of a gram. This would work. This  _had_ to work. If it didn't… He cleared his mind and reapplied his focus. It would do him no good to consider the failure until he came to it.

Seconds later, his benchtop counter gave a small ping and his countdown ended. Without a moment of hesitation, he upended the shavings into the cauldron.

The reaction was immediate. A gentle simmer turned into a rolling boil, and dark liquid spat and spluttered over the cauldron edge, singeing the tabletop and setting a nearby scrap of parchment ablaze. The smell of burning wood and hide was soon joined by the sharp tang of melting bronze. Another cauldron lost to the power of a potion gone wrong.

"Sod it!" he yelled. He hit the table with his fist, and swore again as pain lanced through his clenched palm. He grimaced as he looked at the wound. Shards of glass were embedded there, some of them deeply. It was his own fault; nothing good ever came from acting in anger. With a twitch of his wand, the glass worked its way out of his skin. He watched apathetically as blood dripped from his fingers onto the cold stone floor.

Soft footsteps approached him from behind. A house-elf to clean the floor. Theo held up his hand and the footsteps halted. A bloody floor was the least of his concerns. What was the difference, anyway? Nott Hall was a wreck, a mere shade of its former self. The floors were perpetually dirty, despite the elves' best efforts. The parts of ceiling that weren't charred were strung with cobwebs so thick it was difficult to distinguish the beams beyond. The walls were dusty and stained, and most of the Nott family portraits had been burned, slashed, taken down, or altogether abandoned. The furniture was in a state of disrepair so severe that the majority was considered scrap, the rooms were draughty unless someone thought to cast a warming charm, and the self-lighting candles had never been replaced. Theo had grown accustomed to the darkness everywhere but here, in the study- _cum_ -laboratory. He ate and walked in darkness, yes, but he refused to work in it, too.

He backed away from his bench, collapsed into an old, uncomfortable chair, and put his head in his hands. Dwelling on the past was even more useless than planning for failure, and yet his memories of what Nott Hall  _was_ were vivid and bright. There was laughter in this place once. There was love. And then there was his father. And his mother.

His mother…

A low wail, like wind through the cracks of an old door, wound through the hall, and something large thumped on the floor above him. He stared at the ceiling and waited, but all remained quiet.

It wouldn't last.

Suddenly exhausted, Theo closed his eyes and rested his head against the chair's grimy fabric. When he first began his research, he had been convinced that he could do it on his own. Now he wasn't so sure. Research wasn't typically a solitary endeavor. A laboratory could house dozens of people from different backgrounds with different experiences, different ways of seeing the world, and different ways of approaching an obstacle. That type of collaboration was magical in its own right.

He'd never been too keen on working with others, but in the face of yet another failure, he yearned for it. He allowed himself a sweet moment of longing, and then pushed the dream away. Striving for the chronically unattainable was unhealthy. Wishing for his own laboratory, for a group of his peers…

He scoffed as the dream disintegrated further. What peers could he trust with his work? What peers could match him in intelligence? A single, tenuous thread connected the Cruciatus Curse and the Draught of Living Death, and his research depended heavily on a union of Curse and Potion theory. He had devoted much of his life to its study, fancied himself an expert. Who else could even begin to understand at his level? Who else would even have a  _chance_  at comprehending the theory behind what he was attempting?

The answer presented itself so quickly and forcefully that it brought him to his feet.

There was one person who could. One witch, the brightest in their year, or so he often heard with no small amount of bitterness. He was just as smart as she was, after all; she was simply more vocal about it.

His opinion didn't change the facts, however:  _she_  could understand.  _She_  could help him.

There was a loud smack behind him, and the squeal of a house-elf in pain. It scurried away. Slow, shuffling steps and a guttural moan replaced the vanishing patter of its little feet.

Theo frowned and decided.

He would write her tomorrow.

* * *

 

**T minus 1 year, 332 days**

It wasn't like Hermione Granger to hesitate. When Professor Snape asked a question in class, did she ever stay her hand from shooting into the air? When Voldemort's murderous snake launched itself at Harry, did she wait before casting the spell that saved his life? When Ron ended their two-year relationship because he felt she was too "career-oriented," did that prevent her from returning to work at the Ministry the next day?

No, no, and no.

Hermione was a woman of decision and efficiency. She always had been. Yet here she stood, across the street from The Leaky Cauldron, her Imperturbable Charm shielding her from the driving snow and her warming charm doing a bang-up job alleviating the bite of the freezing temperatures,  _hesitating_.

Perhaps she should put the behavioral aberration down to skepticism. It was not every day she met old classmates in pubs, after all, and it was less common to meet with an old  _Slytherin_  classmate. Even less likely than  _either_  of those was the man she was meeting, who had arranged the whole thing in the first place: Theodore Nott.

She clenched her fist, the worn parchment held within putting up very little resistance. She'd read the letter so many times that she'd memorized it:

_To Ms Hermione Granger,_

_I heard from a mutual acquaintance that you're the witch to talk to about Ministry regulations, specifically those relating to private research ventures. I have a few queries before my undertaking can proceed, and hope you will consent to a brief, informal meeting. Please reply with the earliest date and time you are available._

_Thank you,_

_Mr Theodore Nott_

_Mutual acquaintance_ … That was Pansy, no doubt. Theo had been a loner all through Hogwarts, but if he  _did_  have any friends all those years ago, it would have been Draco Malfoy's old posse. Well, Malfoy had moved abroad with Zabini years ago, Crabbe was dead, and Goyle was doing time in Azkaban for using the Cruciatus Curse at the pub after his favorite team had lost a Quidditch match. Parkinson was the only one left for Nott to talk to. As she was now dating Ron, there was plenty of opportunity for her to learn about Hermione's work, though she certainly hadn't learned those tidbits from the source itself. Hermione made a point of avoiding the couple whenever possible, in fact, and she didn't appreciate being the subject of their pillow talk.

Yet again, she considered broaching the subject with one of the perpetrators, but just as quickly put the thought out of her head. Ron would brush it off, Pansy would over-react, and the entire ordeal was guaranteed to be not only a headache, but also a complete waste of time.

Besides, Nott had always been one of the less harmful Slytherins, if such a thing existed. He'd been quiet, spending most of his time in the Hogwarts Library at a table not too far from hers. He even asked to borrow her notes once. How much animosity could remain between two people when something as personal as class notes were shared? Yes, there was still the standard Muggle-born/pure-blood bullshite and the vague sense of disdain that came with being Sorted into Houses with such a heated rivalry, but Hermione got the sense that Nott didn't really give two figs about anything so petty.

She supposed this meeting would prove that notion true or false. Despite the strange bundle of nerves residing in her stomach, she was eager to learn which it was. And despite not giving two figs  _herself_ about what Nott thought, she hoped she was right.

* * *

 

**T minus 1 year, 301 days**

It took a minute for Hermione's eyes to adjust to The Cauldron's dim interior. It was a wonder that, for all the magic Hannah Abbott had at her disposal, clean windows and bright candles were a rarity. She supposed it was part of the pub's appeal: quiet despite being a way station for most of wizarding London, large enough to keep the entire Weasley clan and then some comfortable, but with areas private enough for recurring  _informal meetings_ between…

Hermione furrowed her brow. Well, what were they now? Colleagues? No, that was inaccurate: her official position was with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Nott was working on his own, intending to brew a potion that could alleviate the long-term side effects of a sustained Cruciatus Curse. If anything, she was his consultant – the person he hired to tell him his limits. The person who could tell him no and force him to obey.

The implicit trust in her knowledge of the MLE codebook was intensely gratifying, seeing as all the thanks she got in the MLE was a grunt when she came back with the correct breakfast orders for their once-weekly morning meetings. That alone was enough to make her consider leaving the Department for Nott. And that was  _before_  she received the extremely hefty retainer he had owled. Convinced that it had simply been a significant clerical error, she sent the money back with the very owl that delivered it. The bird returned two hours later bearing, in addition to the cheque, a note advising her to "stop being ridiculous and accept the bloody payment."

Pure-bloods. Some threw Galleons around like Chasers threw Quaffles.

She wound her way through the mostly unoccupied tables and chairs towards a door at the back of the pub. She'd never noticed the door before her first meeting with Nott, probably because she'd never needed to. It opened into a small room, lined on either side with four booths. Each booth had a dark blue curtain drawn over its entrance and a small candle in the corner. If the candle was out and the curtain drawn, the booth was occupied and not a single aspect of the occupiers could be seen.

Four booths were occupied. Hermione sighed; she disliked this part.

She approached the first booth on her left and, once she was abreast of the unlit candle, whispered, "Will a Niffler dig up pyrite?"

Her question was met with silence, so she moved on to the second occupied booth in that row. More silence. At the third booth, however, came an answer.

"Only if the Niffler is a fool."

The curtain flicked open, and Hermione slid into the booth. It shut just as quickly, ruffling her hair. She smoothed it down as best she could and, just like she had last time, took a moment to size up the man sitting opposite.

Nott hadn't changed much since Hogwarts: thin and lanky, with unremarkable brown hair, ears that stuck out a bit too far, and a slightly off-center nose, as if it had once been broken and either not healed at all or healed incorrectly. His eyes, though, were rather captivating – a strange grey-green that Hermione had to stop herself from staring at. Nott saved her the trouble of finding the willpower to look away by clearing his throat.

"Afternoon," she said briskly, making a show of adjusting her bag beside her.

"Granger." He nodded cordially and gestured to her elbow. "Hope you don't mind, but I ordered for you. Black tea with lemon."

She attempted to arch an eyebrow at him, succeeding in looking shocked but failing at looking affronted. So she put the sting of insult she felt into her tone. "That's awfully presumptuous of you."

He looked confused; she had to bite her cheek to keep from giggling. "It's what you ordered last time," he said carefully.

"Did it never occur to you that I would want something different  _this_  time?"

Nott looked scandalized at the very idea, and Hermione noted the bottle of Butterbeer at his elbow. He'd had the same last time and would probably have it the next, too.

"You like consistency, don't you?" she asked before he had time to generate a reply.

That earned her another scandalized look and a cautious, "You don't?"

She shrugged. "In some things, yes."

"But in beverages?"

"I like a little variety." She smiled, and Theo nodded as if he'd learned something far more serious than drink preferences.

"I apologize," he said after a moment of internalization. "I won't presume on you again. Order whatever you want. I'll pick up the tab."

He looked so sincere that Hermione could no longer restrain her playful grin. "See that you don't," she scolded lightly, "but placing another order won't be necessary. I'm quite content with tea for today. My treat."

As she reached for the teapot, she caught a glimpse of Nott's furrowed brow and quirked lips, as if he was trying to figure out a puzzle and very much enjoying it.

"So," Hermione started after taking a sip of tea, "what information do you need from me this time?"

Nott withdrew his quill, ink, and parchment, and their second meeting began. To the surprise of neither, it once again ran long.

* * *

 

**T minus 1 year, 109 days**

"No."

Nott raised both eyebrows at Hermione's atypically brief response. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"I shouldn't have to. I know your question is hypothetical – that you're not even  _close_ to actually  _testing_  your potion…" Nott opened and closed his mouth, as if debating whether to interrupt, and settled on a grimace. "But even the  _thought_  of performing the Cruciatus Curse on something that can feel it…" She shuddered in disgust. "No."

"Why not?"

Indignation bristled through her. " _Why not_? Well, if I must spell it out. The penalty for performing the Cruciatus Curse on a sentient or semi-sentient being is an immediate arrest, a trial before the Wizengamot, and, if convicted, a large fine and upwards of fifty years in Azkaban. It could even worse, considering your…  _familial associations_."

"What the bloody  _fuck_  does that have to do with anything?" Nott barked. His normally placid grey-green eyes sparked with nettled pride. She'd never seen him so heated or heard him curse; the sight was a tad intimidating.

She explained carefully. "Nothing to  _me_. But to a jury of your betters?"

"My bastard father is in Azkaban. We haven't spoken in years."

"I know, but do you think that will matter? The Wizengamot is old and prejudiced, but they've recently had to come round to a new way of thinking. They don't take these things lightly anymore."

"You think _I_ do?"

"No!" she snapped. "And you  _know_  I don't! I'm just telling you what you need to know, what will keep you out of Azkaban. You and I both want this potion to be successful, but you  _must_  find a different way to test it."

"How?" Nott challenged. Assured that she saw him as totally separate from his father, the ferocity in his eyes tempered to something bordering mania and enthusiasm. "How am I to test the potion's efficacy without using something that can  _feel_  pain?"

"That's not for me to figure out," she said with not a little relief. She lifted her glass and took a sip. "You're the researcher. I'm just the consultant, remember?"

"You could be more," he groused. "I've offered-"

"I know what you've offered," she said, softening her tone, "and it's not that I don't appreciate it. I  _do_."

"Then why won't you-"

"Because I'm more interested in policy than I am-"

"In helping people?" he finished for her.

Her expression soured, and she set down her cup with carefully measured force. "Policy  _does_  help people," she said tightly. " _Lots_  of people."

"But only when it passes."

Hermione clenched her jaw tightly and took deep breaths. She was perilously close to losing her composure, which meant that Nott was perilously close to losing a body part of which he was quite fond.

Nott cottoned on to her anger quickly. A marvel. He even had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. He cleared his throat. "That was one of those things that people think but don't say, wasn't it?" he asked softly.

She only nodded to keep from yelling.

He sat with his back straight against the booth with his brow furrowed: his 'I'm figuring it out' expression. Hermione knew him well enough by now to wait. After a moment, he awarded her with his focused gaze.

"I apologize." His voice was low and sincere. "You know that I can be-"

"An insensitive idiot?"

He frowned, but nodded; Hermione flushed with a hint of guilt. By their third meeting, she had learned that Nott kept quiet to keep from getting himself in trouble. He could be honest to the point of tactlessness, and that was rarely a quality one looked for in a partner. By the fifth meeting, she had learned that his awkwardness wasn't totally his own fault: his mother had died when he was young, and his father, when not following Voldemort or participating in illegal business transactions, was more interested in alcohol than in raising his son.

Nott was still frowning, so Hermione reached across the table and gently took his hand. "I'm sorry, too," she said quietly. "I admire the work you're doing. I really do. I believe that you can make a difference. But no matter how much I was to be a part of what you're doing, I can't just let go of what I want."

"You feel like you've been riding on coattails your entire life," Nott said in a startling moment of clarity. "You want to make it on your own."

Hermione swallowed thickly, but maintained eye contact. "Exactly."

"I… I can respect that."

Her stomach gave a funny flip, and she felt her cheeks flush. She withdrew her hand and smiled. "Thank you."

"And you were always so sure of yourself at Hogwarts. Stubborn." Hermione chuffed. "I should've figured that you'd be unlikely to change your mind so quickly," he continued.

"About as likely as you would be at this point."

It was his turn to chuckle. "But I'd gladly take you on as a partner. I don't think the Ministry would be too keen to have me."

She shrugged. "I don't think that's true." The admission was oddly in keeping with the night's theme, and, throwing caution to the wind, she elaborated. "You have an amazing mind, Nott. The ways you want to modify the Draught of Living Death… Well, it's inspired, frankly. The Ministry would be lucky to have you."

"They're lucky to have  _you_ , but they don't seem to realize it. Why's your latest bill not getting any support?"

Hermione laughed through her nose. "Well, the  _why_  of it isn't particularly surprising, which I should have realized before I penned the damn thing. I don't think you'd support it, either."

Nott smirked. "Try me."

She met his expression with a challenging grin of her own. "Fine, then. I've proposed an additional, once-every-five-decades tax on ancestral pure-bloods."

"Ancestral pure-bloods already pay higher taxes. Why tax us again?"

"They are taxed at a rate calculated by their annual income. For some pure-bloods, this rate is lower than that of a working-class Muggleborn. This tax would be based on a percentage calculated by their  _cumulative_ wealth."

"Including the gold in our vaults?"

Hermione smirked at Nott's incredulity. "Including the gold in their vaults."

He sat back against his chair and laughed quietly, a strange smile playing about his lips. "Well, it's no wonder you're not a favorite in the Department."

"They're a bunch of cowards," she said with forced indifference and a stiff shrug. "Cowards with deep pockets that they aren't afraid to use, but terrified to  _lose_. The corruption…" She sighed. "You wouldn't believe it."

"I think I would," he deadpanned. "I also think I can help you, if you want it."

She perked up at that. "How?"

"Give me a few names and a few months," Nott said with a wicked grin. "I can see if those cowards' pockets are as deep and dark as their pasts."

"Blackmail?" she whispered, well aware that the privacy curtain prevented anyone but Nott from hearing her.

"Versus bribery. Is it so unfair?"

"Unfair? It's illegal!"

He shrugged. "If it gets you what you want…"

"No," she said vehemently, shaking her head. "I don't want to win like that."

Nott almost looked disappointed. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"I won't." And she meant it.

He simply grinned, his teeth shining in the low light. "Stubborn and virtuous. Are you sure you don't want to work with me? You could keep me from doing something foolish."

A chill crawled up her spine. "I can do that just as well from here. Now can we please order soon? I'm famished."

"Of course. It's on me tonight."

"Oh, no, that's fine-"

"I insist," he said sternly. With a gentle wave of his hand, a plate of brie, grapes, apples, and crusty bread appeared, accompanied by a bottle of wine and two cloudy glass tumblers. "Happy early birthday."

* * *

 

**T minus 1 year, 88 days**

It took a few minutes for Hermione to feel conscious enough to drag herself out of bed and into kitchen for pumpkin juice and toast. She lurched across her living room, paying absolutely no attention to Theo's head in the grate until he coughed delicately and said, "Good morning, Hermione."

She stiffened at once and turned slowly toward the Floo, more grateful than ever that she'd worn pajama pants to bed. Her camisole, however, was too thin to be decent. Judging by his expression, Theo managed to get an eyeful before Hermione could cross her arms over her chest. She gave him her best glare.

"If it wasn't so early, I'd come through that Floo and throttle you."

Theo looked surprised. "Early? It's nearly eleven."

"And we stayed up talking until nearly four last night. How much sleep do  _you_  need?"

"Apparently not as much as you," he muttered. "May I come in?"

She made the mistake of uncrossing her arms and waving him in, which she realized when he cleared his throat.

"Make yourself comfortable," she said over her shoulder. "I'll be right back." She shut her bedroom door and started the process of making herself presentable. It was a half-hearted effort that involved a robe, an elastic for her hair, and couple splashes of cold water to her face. When she rejoined him, she saw that Theo had taken her words to heart: the kettle was on and he was peering into her refrigerator.

"Eggs?" he asked, glancing at her from over his shoulder.

"Help yourself." She reached around him for the scones and felt the heat of his body through her robe. She shivered and glanced at him, then held his gaze as he studied her.

"I really appreciated your help last night," he said. "I'd never thought of incorporating aspects of the Wiggenweld potion into the cure."

"It could help lessen residual side-effects of the modified Draught without being potent enough to nullify the entire thing." She'd meant to say it nonchalantly, but it came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm glad you don't mind sharing your work with me."

Theo nodded and said nothing, though the look in his eyes conveyed more than probably intended. Hermione gasped quietly, her lips parted, and Theo tilted his head to the side, once more wearing that puzzled-and-loving-it smile. They were close now, closer than they'd ever been.

Then the kettle screamed.

The tension between them melted, leaving only awkward domesticity in its wake. Theo rushed to take the kettle off the burner and Hermione scurried to the table. By the time she'd taken a sip of pumpkin juice and he'd helped himself to a scone, they were just two friends enjoying breakfast. She enjoyed the naturalness of it, but a significant part of her missed the atmosphere between them.

They sat at the kitchen table until they had resolved their conversation from the previous evening. As she watched Theo Floo away, Hermione suspected that Theo's house calls would become more and more common. As she remembered the delightful tension from earlier, Hermione knew that she wouldn't mind in the slightest.

* * *

 

**T minus 1 year, 22 days**

For the first time since they began meeting, Hermione was the one waiting in the booth. It was exciting to be on the other side of the curtain for once. Already, she'd heard four sentences of code, all of which were as nonsensical as the words she and Theo exchanged. She sipped her red currant rum (it was the holidays; she was allowed the splurge) and played with the ribbon of the modest package before her, thinking about Theo.

He was never far from her mind, and she had a suspicion that she was never far from his. They had increased the frequency of their meetings from once a month to twice, then to thrice. They had yet been able to meet once a week, but once Hermione's schedule settled down, she was sure it would happen. They usually talked business; Theo often had at least one policy question, or else wanted to bounce an idea off her. Occasionally, however, they would forgo the business entirely and talk about themselves instead. Theo knew, and took an interest in, all of the drama and politics involved in, well, politics, and she likewise knew what parts of Theo's potion were giving him trouble. He was abreast of the latest Ron/Pansy developments, as well as when Harry and Ginny's second child was due. Oddly, she didn't know a thing about any one of Theo's friends. It occurred to her that maybe she was the only he had.

The thought made her simultaneously warm and cold, and she started when a soft voice sounded at her ear. "What's a house elf's favorite sock pattern?"

She smiled and answered, "Snitches, though most hate the socks themselves."

The curtain twitched, and Theo gracefully eased himself into the seat across from her.

"I thought you said you couldn't meet this month," he said in a lightly accusatory tone.

She waved his petulance away. "December has always been like that for me. I didn't want to commit and then have to cancel. And I can't stay for long. I just wanted to give you this."

She pushed the elegantly wrapped package across the table toward him. He looked from her to the present and back again. After a moment of deliberation, he drew it toward him. "What is this?"

"A Yule gift, I suppose." She smiled. "Go on and open it. I won't make you wait."

He stared at the package for a few moments, then at her from beneath his dark brown lashes. "I didn't get you anything," he confessed softly. He almost sounded  _guilty_.

Hermione fought a blush, but, again, waved off his concern. "It's nothing. May even make your life more difficult."

A smile teased the corner of his lips, and he worked his finger beneath the taped seam. He unwrapped the gift slowly, reverently, not tearing a single piece of the paper. She was impressed; she didn't have nearly enough patience or self-control to deny herself like that. Moreover, there was a certain pleasure in ripping open gifts – an animalistic quality in which she rarely indulged otherwise.

She studied Theo's face as the wrapping fell away. His brow furrowed as he picked up the large sheath of eight-and-a-half by eleven inch paper, and deepened as he read off the titles of the first few articles Hermione had found for him.

" _The Nervous System and You_.  _Understanding Nerve Impulse Transmission_.  _The Nervous System and Pain_."

He looked back up at her, his expression unreadable. Hermione squirmed under the scrutiny and wondered if she had done something very,  _very_ wrong. Then, he chuckled and set the papers back onto the table as if they were made of glass.

"I thought you were  _just the consultant_."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and grinned. "You never said I couldn't dabble."

"I wish you would've dabbled sooner. If this is what I think it is…"

She nodded. "I think it is. You'll understand it a lot better than I did, but from what I gathered, Muggles have been studying how cells react to stimuli – to pain – for years using nothing more than the cells themselves. I don't know the specifics, but this might be enough to get you going. If these could lead you to the right kinds of resources, you may be able to begin experimental trials."

Theo shook his head in awe. "This… Hermione, I don't know what to say. Thank you." He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, planting a soft kiss upon her knuckles. " _Thank you_ ," he breathed again. Hermione's heart fluttered.

"You're welcome," she said just as breathily.

"I want to see you again this month," he said suddenly.

"Oh, I-"

" _Please_ ," he asked ardently. His strange grey-green eyes sparkled in the dim light. "One night. Just one."

"When?"

He paused for a moment, thinking. "Two weeks. Saturday."

Hermione counted the days quickly. "That's the night before Christmas Eve."

"All the better. I promise that you'll be back in time to spend it with your family."

She studied his pleading face for a moment. It was the most open and unguarded she'd ever seen him. Though she'd been apathetic at first, she'd grown to consider him quite attractive: big ears, yes, but with a sound chin and a firm jaw; ordinary brown hair, but hair that became wavier as it grew; lanky, but with a wiry strength, as she'd seen, and enjoyed, when he wore short-sleeved shirts. And his eyes. They were remarkable most days, but now, when they were wide and expressive, alive with excitement, like how she'd only seen when they were debating? Unbelievable didn't quite capture it. Best of all, though, was his earnest and kind smile. It was transformative, making every feature that could be considered a flaw, physical or otherwise, disappear.

"You should smile more often," she whispered before she could stop herself.

His smile widened; her heart skipped several beats. "Is that a yes?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes."

"Great. I'll see you then."

With a final kiss to the back of her hand, he scooped up his papers and left her. She stayed long enough to get her lunatic smile under control, Floo'd home, and resumed smiling until she fell asleep.

* * *

 

**T minus 1 year, eight days**

There was only one candle lit in the back room of The Cauldron, but the curtain was drawn regardless. Hermione sighed and wondered if there would ever be a time when she and Theo could abandon this ritual. She wouldn't have a problem with him meeting at her flat, though it would probably be inconvenient for him. Though if they had their Floos connected… She frowned. Perhaps that was getting a bit too serious.

She approached the candle and asked, "Why should you never buy a centaur a gift?"

Theo's voice answered, "Because the stars give them all they need."

The curtain flicked open, but Theo's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before she could take her seat opposite him. He pulled her toward his seat instead and, her curiosity piqued by the change of custom, she sidled in next to him.

The benches were much smaller than she remembered. She was closer to Theo than she had ever been before, could feel the heat of his body and the moisture of his breath ghosting over her lips as he quietly spoke her name.

"I wasn't sure you'd come tonight," he confessed. He kept her hand in his and looked down at them as he spoke.

"I've never cancelled before," she whispered.

Theo nodded, apparently aware that his worry was unjustified. They were both silent for a long moment, and just as Hermione was about to ask how he'd been, he spoke.

"Those papers have turned out to be invaluable to me. You've helped more than you know. My potion…" He trailed off and stared at their joined hands with a tight smile.

"I'm glad for that."

"I am, too. I wanted to do something just as helpful for you."

"Oh, you didn't need-"

"I  _wanted_ to," he said firmly. He handed her a roll of parchment bound with a thick red ribbon and sat with his back against the wall, giving her space. She gave him a curious smile and gently pulled on one end of the ribbon. It came apart with just the slightest tug. Theo watched intently as she unrolled and read the scroll.

Her eyes scanned the words once, then again. She looked back up at Theo, whose wide smile shrank just a bit at her confused expression. She dropped her eyes back to the scroll and started reading again, this time scanning over the several feet of names listed. Pure-blood names. Some were the very same names that were blockading the tax reform bill she'd proposed.

"Theo…" she whispered. "How… How did you…"

"I may be quiet, but I still have some pull in the pure-blood community."

She felt weak. She held the paper away from her. "I told you I didn't want… Bribery wasn't-"

His brow furrowed. "Bribery? No. No!" he said vehemently, taking her hand. "Not one of these signatures was gathered using a bribe. Threats, yes," he ceded with a grin, "but those don't hurt anybody."

Mouth agape, she stared at him and read sincerity in his eyes. Theo wouldn't lie to her. Not about something so important. Her worry gradually turned to wonderment, and a giggle escaped before she could think to hold it in. "This is… This is  _incredible_. To have these families' support… The Wizengamot will have to send my bill through!"

"You've made a difference in my life," he said. He reached up to stroke her cheek, and his fingers came to rest on the point of her chin. "It's time for you to start making a difference in the lives of others."

"Theo…"

The decision was no decision at all, really. They had been drifting closer together, not just over the months they had been meeting, but physically, tonight. Hermione could feel his breath on her nose and see the dark flecks of blue in his grey-green eyes, just as easily as he could count the freckles on her nose. It was inevitable that their lips should touch, that they should taste and share in each other as selflessly as they both had given over the past few months.

Share they did, deeply and without restraint. Hermione moaned into his mouth and Theo, typically so reserved, clutched her to him tightly. Her hand found his belt buckle just as his reached beneath her skirt, and she gasped as he touched her.

They made love twice in the back room of The Leaky Cauldron, trusting the incorruptibility of the privacy curtain and each other in equal measure. It was frantic but sweet, and, just as he promised, Hermione was back in her flat by Christmas Eve morning, sure that she would receive no better gift than his.

* * *

 

**T minus 244 days**

Hermione was all nerves, which was uncommon in Theo's steady embrace.

Their clandestine romance had been going on for months now, and Hermione was eager for it to emerge from behind the privacy curtain of The Cauldron's back room. It was only logical that it should. She knew him better than anyone else did; better than he knew himself at times, she suspected. He likewise knew every inch of her. They were matched intellectually, politically, and philosophically. And, as proved by Ron and Pansy's relationship, there was already a precedent for Slytherins and Gryffindors openly and successfully dating, though that detail was hardly important.

The rationality of the decision would appeal to Theo. He could be a closed book at times, staid and unemotional, responding much better to logic and reasoning than he ever did to vehemence and intuition. Opening a dialogue of this nature with him would be tricky, but Hermione was confident that she could do so with very few ill effects. In fact, she felt reasonably sure that Theo would agree to, if not enthusiastically support, her idea.

She  _felt_ it.  _That_  was important.

For as much as the logic appealed to her, too, the swooping in her stomach and the heat in her cheeks she felt when he was near indicated that her feelings for Theo ran much deeper than those reserved for a simple bedfellow. Even when she was dating Ron, it sometimes felt like they were just traveling a path laid before them by others, treading swiftly and obediently in time with the expectations of his mother and many of their mutual friends.

What had grown between her and Theo was organic. No one and nothing had pushed them together. He had initiated contact with her because he needed her help; she had joined him because she wanted to. Neither of them was under any obligation, and the outcome of their arrangement had been completely unpredictable.

The thought of where it could venture next was exhilarating, and she was eager for that rush. With a deep breath, she turned toward her lover.

"Hermione, there's something I want to tell you."

She closed her mouth was an audible click, unprepared for the delay. She managed a smile, though, and nodded for him to continue.

"These meetings with you… They've made me happier than I can express. I'm afraid, however, that I can't continue like this any longer."

The pesky nip of annoyance at being delayed dissolved into warm relief. "Merlin, you don't know how happy that makes me. I feel the same way."

Theo looked at her in confusion and, when he spoke, sounded completely taken aback. "You… You do?"

She mirrored his look. "Yes, of course. I didn't question why we kept meeting here because, well, I've enjoyed the risk. But it's been months, and I've been thinking that perhaps it's time to move forward."

" _What_?" His expression was so bewildered that it caused all the relief she had felt to disappear. In its place came dread. Her chest tightened with it, and the room itself seemed to swell and shrink.

"What do  _you_  mean?" she managed to croak.

He considered her carefully before saying, "I'm becoming…  _distracted_. My research is suffering."

He fixed her with such a look that Hermione knew – knew without a fraction of doubt – that their liaisons were over. She felt the truth of it like a blow to the gut. Despite the shock, an insane smile twisted her lips: at last, she could sympathize with Ron. At last, she could understand not only his anger, but also his desperation.

"We'll go back to twice a month," she clipped. Theo grimaced. " _Once_ ," she amended quickly.

"It won't work like that," he said, cutting her off. "My research has reached a pivotal stage. I've…" He looked at her and away again quickly, as if ashamed. "I've started testing."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "I thought you had just started your work… That you weren't even close…" She trailed off and thought back on their conversations. Theo had never specifically stated at  _what_  point he was in his research. She had just assumed that he was years away from starting even the small-scale clinical trials. The news was unsettling, and she wondered for a moment what other assumptions she'd made were false. But perhaps he'd found an experimental analog, or learned how to measure the electrical signals between neurons, or-

"I need to be careful. I need to  _focus._ And you… You're a distraction."

" _Distraction_ ," she sneered. "Why don't you tell me what you really think, Nott?"

He glared at her. "You don't understand. We just can't do this anymore. Not until I've finished. It won't be right for either of us until I've  _finished_."

"Right for  _either_ of us?" she asked incredulously. "When was this not  _right_  for you? Because it certainly seemed right when we fuc-"

He cut her off with a glare, his lips pressed together tightly; he wasn't fond of obscenities. "Circumstances have changed. You…" He sighed. "I wish I could make you understand."

"No," she said, her tone bitter and petty, "I think I understand perfectly. This is simply the end of my employment, isn't it?"

His eyes sparked as they met hers. "Excuse me?"

"This had always been about  _business_ , after all, and wasn't I being paid? Well, you'll be relieved to know that I haven't cashed my last five cheques."

"You think I've been paying you for… For  _that_?" His wand shot sparks, but she held steady.

"That's certainly what it feels like."

"What it  _feels_ like?" His scorn cut her deeply, and the pain of it must have shown on her face. He softened his tone. "You're being completely irrational. I'm just trying to tell you that I need a break to focus on my work!"

"And I'm telling you that any break from me will be a permanent one!"

The declaration stilled him. Finally, her spiteful words seemed to penetrate. She saw it in his eyes, which went from being bright with frustration to dim with indifference. Emotional castration – the most effective method he knew to prevent pain. It lanced Hermione straight to her core.

"So be it."

Tears welled in her eyes. That was the end of their conversation.

* * *

 

**T minus 238 days**

Though it was illegal and unethical to hex post owls, Hermione was forced to consider it. Nott's bloody bird had been perched on her balcony for three hours. She'd tried to frighten it by banging pans together to no avail. When she shooed it away with a broomstick, it simply returned when her back was turned. She'd always thought his to be an exceptionally clever owl, but this behavior was proving the converse. Because if one thing were perfectly clear, it was that she did not intend to talk to Theodore Nott again.

The owl seemed to realize this by sundown and finally left without returning.

* * *

 

**T minus 236 days**

 She missed that fucking bird.

* * *

 

**T minus 201 days**

 The Cumulative Pure-blood Taxation Initiative passed, and Hermione's peers invited her to The Leaky Cauldron to celebrate. Her stomach curdled at the idea, and – though it was tempting to spin a story about the many unsavory characters one could meet there – she instead countered with a trip to The Roper and Reaper.

Many skeptical looks were exchanged: The Roper and Reaper was overpriced, and the service notoriously terrible. It was her celebration, however, and all and sundry reluctantly consented to the suggestion. Hermione tried to hide her relief: even if she had to pay four sickles for a Butterbeer, it was a Butterbeer she could drink without interruption from soured memories.

* * *

 

**T minus 147 days**

Weasley dinners were usually pleasant, but when Pansy attended, they became Hermione's least favorite meals. They were nearly intolerable, however, once she had learned that Hermione and Theo were working together. A sharp question that could be read into far more than Hermione liked was never long in coming. As quick glance flew between Pansy and Ron, Hermione braced herself for this week's entertainment.

"I haven't heard from Theodore Nott in weeks," Pansy said without preface. "Last time I Floo'd, he met me right at the grate. Didn't talk to me for even five minutes. You saw him last, didn't you, Hermione? While you were working together? Perhaps you know how he's been?"

Hermione hated the sound of her name in Pansy's voice as much as she hated the curious looks from the rest of the Weasleys and Harry. And she hated her quick, dark eyes that saw too much more than any of that. She wondered absently if removing them would spoil dinner. Her hand curled around her spoon, but relaxed as she felt Ginny's hand alight upon her leg. Ginny alone knew the truth of her and Nott's… Whatever the hell it had been.

"I haven't spoken to him in three months," she replied in a tone that was too tense to be natural.

Pansy, ever aware, caught her unease immediately. "Something didn't happen between you two, did it? A falling out, perhaps?"

Ginny's grip tightened, and Hermione clenched the spoon. She met Pansy's faux-innocent gaze directly and didn't once flinch as she said, "Our business together came to a close. I hope he's doing well."

Pansy narrowed her eyes and made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. Her questions ended there, fortunately, and once the gathering dispersed, Ginny led Hermione out into the backyard of the Burrow with a bottle of wine and a collection of S.P.E.W. badges she had found in Harry's old trunk. Together, they finished the bottle, exploded some badges, and roundly abused Pansy. Near the end, Hermione's laughter dissolved into tears. Ginny held her until she was through.

* * *

 

**T minus 120 days**

It was time for her to replace her familiar. Crookshanks had died years ago, and the advert she'd seen in the Magical Menagerie window seemed too perfect. After thirty minutes of browsing, Hermione left the shop with a young half-Kneazle named Brandy.

When she let Brandy out to explore her flat, the animal jumped right up onto the windowsill to stare at the balcony. Hermione just smiled. At last, something felt  _right_.

* * *

 

**T plus five minutes**

Hermione was eating her lunch when a crash and a loud hiss sounded from the living room. She set down her sandwich and grabbed her wand.

"Brandy, you naughty thing," she scolded lightly. "What have you gotten into now?" As she made her way into the room, she saw that all of her furniture was in order. On the balcony, however, was a large, windblown owl, sprinkled generously with snow from the driving storm.

A very familiar owl.

 _Nott_.

She considered the bird for a moment, then, steeling herself with a deep breath, opened the window. The bird stepped across the threshold and held out its leg. Hermione untied the note quickly and the owl flew off without waiting for a response. She watched it go for a moment, and then turned her eyes to the letter. It was in Theo's hand, but it was shaky and uneven, as if he'd written it with his left instead of his right hand.

Curiosity piqued, she worked a finger beneath the uneven seal.

_Hermione,_

_I've struggled every day with the way things ended between us. Please, I must see you. Now. Our usual place. The phrase is: "What good is frost in the forest?" "Frost gives way to flowers."_

_Please._

_-Theo_

She scoffed and tossed the letter onto the counter. She didn't know what could possibly be so urgent that he had to see her  _now_. Why not all those months ago, when he had first ended things?

Having decided to ignore the letter, Hermione made her way back to the table. She grabbed her napkin from the table and noticed that there was ink on her fingers. Annoyed, she wiped both hands, but stilled when she saw the color of the ink.

Copper.

Theo only used black.

Hermione brought her fingers to her nose; it was faint, but was no mistaking the metallic tang of blood.

She didn't need to think. She grabbed her wand, her cloak, a handful of Floo Powder, and marched into the back room of The Leaky. She approached the third candlelit booth and said the words. The curtain twitched, and there he was.

* * *

 

**T plus six minutes**

The last few minutes of Theo's life had been filled with more pain than he ever could have imagined. Seeing Hermione for the first time in months doubled his agony, and seeing her disgust and horror squared it. Blood drained from her face as she cried and gasped his name, but she didn't look away.

Or maybe she couldn't. He'd always been pale – the outcome of a life lived almost exclusively indoors – but the sallow cast of his skin was unhealthy. He'd always been thin, too, but the way his collarbones jutted out from beneath his shirt, which hung off him as if he were a frame with no flesh, was unnatural, and that was being fair. His hair was falling out at an alarming rate, and great patches of red and irritated scalp showed through. His lips were chapped, wet with blood in some places and crusting over with pus in others. A blood vessel had burst in his left eye, turning the sclera – normally pristine white – bright red. His grey-green eyes looked eerily bright in comparison, but, as it hurt to open the eye fully, Theo did his best to squint. It probably didn't help.

A tremor ran through his body, and Theo knew he didn't have too much longer. "I've made a mistake," he croaked before she could gather enough composure to speak. He reached out a hand for her – bony, dry, brittle, and missing two fingernails. She took it anyway, taking care to keep her hand away from his sloppy bandages, and held it fast. Her touch was invigorating.

" _Tell me_ ," she whispered urgently. "Tell me what I can do to help you."

Theo smiled softly and shook his head. "There's nothing. Not anymore. I just want you to… understand."

Another tremor brought with it a hacking cough so strong Theo felt it would split him apart.

"I'm taking you to Mungo's." She sounded surprisingly composed. "You need-"

"No," he said sternly, and he must have sounded somewhat like his former self because Hermione stilled. "Listen to me first. Take me to Mungo's if you still think I deserve the help."

She narrowed her eyes, immediately suspicious of the bargain. Theo himself wasn't sure if he would last another  _minute_ , let alone an entire conversation. He held her gaze regardless and felt a small rush of victory as she looked away in silent consent.

He took as deep a breath as his aching chest would allow. Hermione heard the rattle in his lungs and started to say something, but he cut her off. There was no time to argue anymore.

"I never should have stopped seeing you. Never should have pushed you away. When you didn't take my letter, I knew… I  _thought_  I knew… You regretted us."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "No, Theo, I never-"

"I know."

"I was upset. I spoke without-"

He held up a hand to silence her. "I  _know_. But I should have tried harder. I should have gone to you, brought you with me, and showed you... You would have stopped me. Have made me see sense."

"I don't understand."

He wheezed a chuckle. "How could you? I never told you all of it. Now, it's too late."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you know about my mother, Hermione?"

The question took her aback, but she answered readily enough. "Only that you remember she was beautiful. She died when you were young."

He shook his head; a patch of hair separated itself from his scalp and drifted onto his shoulder from the motion. He let it rest there, unsure of whether or not he had the strength to brush it away.

"She did not die when I was young. She died this morning, just minutes before I owled you. I…  _I killed her_."

Hermione looked at once terrified and incredulous. "That… That's not possible. Your mother can't be alive."

He did not bother repeating himself. "My father… He was the first to try. Angry one night. Drunk. Cursed her beyond her limits. The Cruciatus. We all paid for it: my father with guilt, my mother with madness, and… And me, knowing and unable to fix… To help… We locked her up. Told the house-elves to see to her." He inhaled and felt something lodge in his throat. He choked, coughed, and felt whatever it was dislodge. He dragged his hand up to his mouth and spat into it.

It was a molar.

He threw it away before Hermione could see, and not a moment too soon. She looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. "That's who the potion was for," she whispered. "This whole time, you've been working to restore your mother. To get her back. You  _killed_ …" The full impact of what he had done finally seemed to strike. She put her head into a shaky hand and pressed her lips together. He hated to see her like this, and hated even more to make it worse, but the truth needed to be said.

"I used her to test the potion."

 _Without her consent_  was implied. His mother was unable to articulate what she wanted, unable to ask him to stop, to tell him when it hurt. Phrases like 'highly unethical' and 'morally reprehensible' were both appropriate, but Hermione was not capable of any speech but a groan.

"Small-scale subjects – rats, toads… I could measure the effects. Small doses, small changes. Everything was fine… Normal. I thought…" He shuddered violently as another hacking cough stole his lungs. He regained himself after a moment, but remained hunched. "There were  _side effects_ ," he continued sourly, gesturing weakly at himself. "She went mad –  _madder_  – collapsed, and woke again. She… She  _bit me_."

He pulled his collar away from him neck, revealing a thick white bandage. He removed that next, and watched as Hermione turned green. He knew what she saw. The wound hadn't been a minute old before it had started to mortify. Black, dead flesh spread away from the open, oozing chunk missing from where his neck met his shoulders. The smell was almost overwhelming – a sick, sweet stench of rotting meat.

That was her tipping point. Theo waited until Hermione was through vomiting to continue. Each sentence was a battle fought with his dying body. A battle he was quickly losing.

"Hit her with a severing charm. Decapitated her." He shuddered at the memory, still so fresh. The wound was not clean, like a severing charm should have made it. Her skin was shredded instead of sliced, and the flesh below was already blackening, too soft and yielding to be normal, or even human.

"It's too late now," he continued. "What I saw, what happened to her…" One short, violent cough had him spitting a gob of blood onto the table. They both stared at it, she in horror and he in numb acceptance. "I wanted to apologize before… Before I die. I should have told you every day how much… I care about you. I thought… I think… I love you."

He had said it. He had won the war. Satisfied now and oddly calm, he leaned back against the booth and closed his eyes. He heard her scream-sob, her barely sensible words promising help, a life of love, an end to the pain. But he was no longer fighting, and the pain was slipping away quickly now. Slipping as quickly as he was.

One last look. He wanted one last look. Prying his eyes open, he saw her face above his, so close, so beautiful. He managed what smile he could and whispered her name. Then, with a final breath, a final shudder, Theo let himself go.

* * *

 

**T plus twelve minutes**

Pressure. Warmth.

 _Hunger_.

Touching. Touched.

 _Hunger_.

Noise.

 _Hunger_.

Sight.

 _Hunger_.

Food.

 _Hunger_.

Bite.

 _Blood_.


End file.
